


Comedown

by bactaqueen



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: F/M, PWP, Reader fic - Freeform, Steve Rogers is a good boyfriend
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-03
Updated: 2018-08-03
Packaged: 2019-06-21 09:46:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15555021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bactaqueen/pseuds/bactaqueen
Summary: Steve, Reader, and some comfort + celebration sex.





	Comedown

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual people or events is entirely coincidental. Captain America belongs to Marvel. No infringement is intended and no profit is made.
> 
> Author’s Note: This is just porn. It’s not even explicit, it’s just porn.

Steve tosses the suit jacket onto the chair next to the bureau as he sits down heavily on the edge of the bed. He runs his hands down his thighs. Were the pants this tight when he bought them two weeks ago? He doesn’t think so. He doesn’t think the vest felt as tight as armor then, either, but now it does. Even the cuffs of the shirt are too tight, but those he can at least take care of now. He opens the cufflinks.

As he does, he watches you move around the bedroom. For three months, you have run yourself ragged, worked yourself into exhaustion so complete that he’d caught you asleep in the shower more than once, and now that it’s all over, you seem… lost. It inspires something protective in him. Steve toes off his shoes and kicks them under the bed. If he never sees them again, it still might be too soon. He leans over and drops the cufflinks onto the nightstand.

You wander into the closet. He watches you stand in front of the shoe rack and seem to forget what you were doing.

He understands the sense of emptiness. Months of planning have come to fruition, an event no one expected to see completed has gone off without a hitch. He was there. He knew what it had meant going in, and he knew what it meant in the end, when the imposing man with the red face shook your hand and told you to enjoy your time off, you earned it.

He’s never not proud of you, but that was a new high moment of it.

Steve starts rolling up his sleeves out of habit. He wants out of the clothes, too tight and too formal. They remind him of Peggy’s funeral, and that’s an ache he’s just not prepared to deal with at the moment, but he doesn’t want to leave them all on the chair by the door, and the closet may be big for Brooklyn, but it’s not enough for both of you.

And you’re still in there.

He frowns.

He wonders how long he should wait before he says something, or if he should say something at all. He can see part of your face, the dazed expression he knows too well, and it seems fitting to compare what you’ve been through to a battle. No one expected you to succeed. Worse, they expected you to fail, passed down the assignment so you  _would_  fail, so they had a scapegoat.

But you didn’t fail. You weren’t their scapegoat. You met every challenge they handed you, found a way around every obstacle, and you forced them to find a new way to tell everyone  _we fucked up, our bad._

You’re still standing in the closet.

“Do you want the shower?”

You flinch and then, belatedly, turn to face him. You look… small. Deflated. He loves the dress you’re wearing; he doesn’t love it right now, not when it looks so empty on you. Not when  _you_  look empty.

You slip out of your shoes. “I think I might fall asleep in the shower,” you mumble.

He smiles ruefully. Your eyes flash up, meet his, and your mouth twitches like you’re trying to smile, too.

“You wanna just go to bed?”

Your eyes flick from him to the pillows, and there’s the briefest flare of interest in them.

“Oh. Yes.” Like it’s something you hadn’t considered.

Steve finds himself patting his thigh. “Come here.”

You glance at the cubbies in the closet, beside the shoe rack. “I think I should change.” It’s a good dress. You don’t want to sleep in it.

“You’re exhausted,” he says. He pats his thigh again. “Come here.”

You stare at him for a moment. For a few moments. And then you’re moving. Trudging, really, but he’ll take it, because your feet are bare and you’re getting closer to the bed, and he’s got an idea forming.

When you’re standing in front of him, finally, he reaches for your hand. You stare down at his fingers wrapped around yours, and he takes advantage of that, lifts your hand to his mouth presses a kiss to your knuckles. He turns your hand over, kisses the inside of your wrist.

“You did great, you know that, right?”

“I think I’m going to sleep for a week.”

You deserve it. He tugs, and suddenly you’re in his lap. He keeps hold of your hand and puts the other arm around you.

“You earned it.”

He waits until you’re looking at him to lean in and kiss you.

When he pulls away, you blink at him. You blink again. He fights a smile. For the first time in a long time, he thinks you see him. Really see him.

Your cheeks go pink. “Thank you,” you say. “I know it’s been–”

He kisses you again. He knows damn well what it’s been. And it seems like you’re finally coming around, coming out of the fog of the assignment. He puts your hand on his head, pushes your fingers through his hair, scrapes your nails along his scalp. His cock twitches in the too-tight pants. All right, he thinks when you curl your fingers in his hair and lean into him.  _All right. Now we’re getting somewhere._

He hitches you closer, scoots back on the bed until your knees are dug into it on either side of his hips, until his knees are hooked over the edge and his feet are flat on the floor and you have no choice but to lock your hips to his. He snakes a hand up your back until he can dig his fingers into your hair and find the pins holding it all into a tidy, no-nonsense bun. He starts pulling the pins out.

You wrap an arm around his shoulders, let him take the full weight of you in his lap, and give up. He feels it. Your spine melts. Your lips soften. You sigh into his mouth.

He has you.

And he breaks the kiss just to murmur that.

He takes the ground you yield. His tongue snakes in past your lips, strokes against yours, teases and coaxes. He pulls the pins from your hair and drops them all, every single one of them, to lose them in the carpet, and then your hair is spilling over his hand, soft and clean, and he’s cupping the back of your head. The arm he has around you shifts, until he’s got it locked around your waist, until he’s very subtly rocking you against him.

You gasp when one particular shift of your hips brings your cunt–hot and hotter with each passing moment–in contact with the ridge of his erection. You break the kiss.

“I know–” you start again.

He wraps your hair around his hand and tugs, gently, tipping your head back. He kisses you again, your open mouth, and then your chin, and then the long sweet line of your neck.

“Shh.” He presses a kiss to the hollow of your throat, then noses into the collar of your dress to kiss the curve of your neck. He works his way back up until he can lip your earlobe. “Shh.”

You take the hint. You take the hint and give up what’s left of the fight in you, and you let him guide you.

He wants to take his arm from around you less than he wants to let go of your hair. He likes the way you are when he holds your hair, when he uses it to bare your throat, to tip your head, to anchor you when he takes your mouth. But he likes more holding you tight, locked to him, and he needs his fingers for this.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs again, slipping his hand between your bodies, bunching your dress in his fingers until he can slip his hand beneath your skirt. His knuckles rub along his cock through his pants when he presses the tips of his fingers against your mound and slides them down until he finds the nub of your clitoris through satin, between your lips.

You gasp. You breathe his name.

He seals his mouth to yours and moves his fingers. He sweeps his fingertips, all four of them, one at a time, up up up up, come here, come here, grazing them over you. You shift your weight, press closer to him, chase his fingers and grind down until he takes the hint and eases them into the leg of your panties, in where you’re hotter and wetter and open for him.

You’ve got both arms wrapped around his neck now, your fingers in his hair. You’re kissing, leaning in, pressing close, chasing him, chasing what you need.

He’s only too happy to give it to you. Months of tension have built up, have led to his. He curves two fingers up into you, his middle and ring fingers, the other fingers pressed tight to you, his thumb on your clitoris, and he lets you ride him.

“Come on,” he murmurs into your mouth.

You whimper.

He tightens his arm around you, stills you, moves his hand like he knows you want to move your hips. Your mouth is open against his, your forehead to the bridge of his nose, and he gives you what he knows you need.

You come, tight all over, arms tight around him, so silent and still that were it not for the way your cunt spasms around his fingers, he wouldn’t know at all.

You whimper again. He kisses you, and doesn’t move his hand, and he keeps kissing you until you start feeling boneless in his arm. In his arms. He slips a hand down, grips your ass, holds you still as he eases his fingers from inside you.

“Steve–”

“Shh. I’ve got you.” He makes quick work of his own fly, frees his erection. It brushes up the inside of your thigh, smearing precome.

You shift on your knees, wriggling in his lap, closer and closer, hips tilting. He pushes your panties to the side, uses his thumb to guide the tip of him, and with the arm around you, pulls you down.

This time, he gasps with you.

He gets both hands on your hips and guides you. You struggle up onto your knees, and he lets you, a few times, rise and fall, long slow strokes that bring such a deep sense of relief, that bring such thorough satisfaction he feels the pull of it in his toes. He groans.

But that’s not what he really wants. That’s not what you need. There will be time for this later, tomorrow, in the coming week when he finally has you all to himself again. For now he needs something else.

He wraps both arms around you. Pulls you down once more. Locks you down. And he rolls his hips.

He feels the shudder all through you. He hears the helpless little sound. That’s it. That’s what he’s chasing. So he does it again. He does it again and again and again until you’re joining him, until you’re matching him, until you’re so tight, so close, he can feel the hard little nub of your clitoris, and he presses his hand flat to the small of your back and makes you grind until you’re coming again, tight around him.

His name is nonsense on your lips, babbled and garbled, a plea. A moment later, he tips over the edge, drags you down and holds you there and comes.

You kiss him through it. Take his mouth and say his name and sigh and pet his hair. And when it’s over, when he’s panting, you rest your forehead against his and laugh.

“We needed that.”

He kisses you gently. “Yeah.” He slips a hand from your back to your side to pluck at the tie of your dress. “Let’s go to bed.”

You start to protest. He can hear it before you say anything, feel it.  _Shower,_  he knows you’ll say. He kisses you silent and gets the dress off of you. Gets the bra off, too, and there’s something uniquely delicious about having your naked breasts pressed to him, about having you down to just panties and thigh-stockings, in his lap and in his arms and satisfied. He thinks he’d like to spend more time with that thought. He knows he’d like to spend more time with the reality.

But not tonight.

He slips out of you. Your hands trail from his hair to the vest, and you’re helping him out of it, out of the shirt, kissing him.

When the shirt and vest are gone, you run your hands up and down his arms and kiss him again, and then you stand up on wobbly knees.

You laugh.

He hasn’t heard you laugh in months.

He grabs your hand to kiss your knuckles again, and he looks up at you through his eyelashes, and the way you smile at him makes his heart leap into his throat.

“Get the light,” he says. “I’ll get the covers.”

You stare at him just a few more moments. “Thank you,” you say.

He kisses your knuckles again and drops your hand. “What else is a hero good for?”

You laugh. You step away, shaking your head, and he’d love to watch you move to the door, to the lightswitch, but he wants the covers down and his pants off by the time you get back.

He almost doesn’t make it.

He catches you around the waist and tumbles you into bed. He pulls the sheet and the duvet over you both, keeps you locked in his arms, against his front, and he curls his body around you. He smooths your hair back, kisses your temple. He hooks a leg between yours.

“Get some rest,” he says, finally.

You run fingers up and down his forearm, then lock your fingers to his. “Good night.”

He kisses behind your ear. By the time he remembers to say something, you’re already asleep.


End file.
